


Sun, Moon and Starlit Sky

by xaritomene, xrysomou



Category: All American Rejects, Bandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-03
Updated: 2010-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaritomene/pseuds/xaritomene, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick and Tyson aren't given to open displays of affection, but who needs open displays of affection when you've got pet names?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun, Moon and Starlit Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: We are not affiliated with any of the people mentioned here, and none of the events are true. If you've got here by googling yourself or your famous friends, the back-button is your friend.

Nick brings up the endearments whenever he feels like it, not much of a pattern to it, though there are some situations where he'll always brings out a pet-name of some kind, Tyson's noticed: reassuring Tyson is a big one, but when Nick's happy, really happy, Ty gets a nickname into the bargain. (He kind of loves that the word for them is 'nickname', but he'd never admit that to anyone. At least not without alcohol.) Happiness, worry, high-spirits, all of them bring the nicknames.

As for Tyson himself, he does when he's feeling ridiculous, or when he wants to shock the anti-gays in Stillwater, or when he's feeling a bit vulnerable. For example, it's 'sugarplum' or 'honeybunch' when he's on a topic he doesn't like, and wants to change the subject. Sometimes, though, he uses them when it's just Nick and him snuggling somewhere, and he says them right into Nick's ear, where he knows it tickles, just to make him laugh.

When he's feeling ridiculous, he'll drawl the stupidest thing he can think up at Nick, watching Nick raise an eyebrow at him or laugh or something like that. Vulnerable, and it's 'baby', a faintly sarcastic slur over the word, and Nick knows all too well that it's more a plea for some reassurance rather than a call to a fight. He'll rub the back of Tyson's neck, fingers rubbing, soothing over the bump of his spine, and Tyson'll shoot him a rather apologetic grin. It'll be answered with a shrug and a grin, and then they move on.

**2002**   
_New York_

The habit first starts when they moved to New York; it's a way of reinvoking home, the everyday endearments they heard between their parents. That, admittedly, was more Nick than Tyson, since Tyson's parents were more of the tense-politeness mould than the fond-endearments one. And Tyson wasn't going to follow in his stepfather's footprints, no matter how much he liked him; he wasn't calling Nick his 'kitten' for anyone

So it was in New York, giddy on the idea that they could make this, this could be forever, could be _them_, when they first start trading endearments like it was commonplace for two teenage boys to call each other 'love' or 'baby' or 'sweetie'. In their defence, they couldn't see why it shouldn't be.

They start out a bit giggly, a bit silly at first – after all, what eighteen- and twenty-year olds hurl flowery nicknames at each other like normal people hurl insults? - but soon it becomes normal. Shuffling around their producer's kitchen, 'Coffee, sweetcheeks?' 'Thanks, petal', it's just how they get by. It reminds them of home, poking gentle fun at their parents' relationships – Tyson's hard pressed to recall _any_ time when his mother called anyone 'sweetcheeks' (_thankfuckingGod_). It's also a way of keeping their heads above the water, to remind them to keep laughing, because if you lose your sense of humour in the whiplash-inducing, up-and-down, you're-in-you're-out music business, you're pretty much done for. And when Tyson pours out yet another bowl of granola - their only real staple, two meals a day - he has to remind himself of that.

Then things take off for them, or at least start moving a bit faster, their songs on the radio and a tour all set up, but by now it's just habit, and they've stopped being the ridiculous names and become ones which actually - good god - mean something to them. Tyson can tell what mood Nick's in from the way he stands next to him, Nick knows if Tyson's stressed from how he holds himself, but then there're the pet names, an added indication. 'Baby'. 'Love'. 'Honey', even, sometimes.

They don't mean anything to anyone else, and in a broad Oklahoma drawl, it's amazing how everyone just ignores them, assumes that that was just part of their childhoods. (It worries Tyson, sometimes, the way people will happily assume stuff about their state which wouldn't fly _anywhere else_.) They get more weird looks for it back home in Stillwater than they do on MTV.

'Love' was an early endearment, probably the first one which meant anything. They called each other 'petal' and 'dearheart' and any number of ridiculous names, and never once alluded to anything even approaching love because, why the hell would they need to? But then it slips out one day as Tyson handed Nick coffee in the morning, apologises automatically for it not being the way Nick likes because they're out of milk - no matter that Nick hasn't mentioned how he wanted his coffee, it's not like they have to _ask_ each other anymore. "There y'go, love." He drawls and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth. They're running out of toothpaste, but it should last a couple more days at least. Maybe they can pick some up when they get milk.

Nick pauses in the doorway, leant against the plywood frame. "'Love'?" he asks, but his eyebrow's raised and he's grinning like a cat, so Tyson just flicks water at him and doesn't panic like he might have done if it wasn't _Nick_, and he hadn't laughed himself sick over Nick's baby pictures when he was seventeen and been making out with him in hidden corners of their town since before then.

"I moved to New York for you dickwad, what d'you think?"

Nick sipped his coffee (sugar made up for the lack of milk), and hmphed. "'Dickwad'. Bit of a step down from 'love', wouldn't'cha say?"

"If you're gonna spurn my love, then -"

"Who says I'm spurnin' it?" Nick interrupts, glancing at Tyson over the rim of his coffee cup, "You fetch me coffee!"

Tyson bumps his shoulder on his way out of the bathroom, grinning.

"Shuddup. We gotta go in a couple minutes. Baby," he adds, as he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

In that particular interview, they're both smiling, avoiding each others' eyes.

**2003**   
_On the road_

Once they get picked up, they really start going somewhere with their music - literally. The four of them pack up their shit in a van, take turns driving it, and tour for what feels like years. It's kind of awesome, dream-like; occasionally Nick'll poke Tyson right in the stomach (he's a dick like that sometimes, but Tyson more than holds his own) and grin, saying, "Y'looked a bit out of it there, sweetcheeks." Or, "You just _wish_ this shit was a dream, babycakes." when they're hefting amps, or when even Tyson's manic energy has failed to capture the crowd, and he can feel misery waiting behind him.

Of course, Tyson retaliates, elbowing Nick and giving him the widest-eyed, most innocent look he can manage when Nick complains. "Aw, sorry, dearheart," he croons, "didn't see you there."

But as always the real slips in amongst all the joking; the times, few and far between, when Nick'll let Tyson lie with his head on Nick's knee and tease out the tangles in his hair, or when Tyson wraps himself round Nick after a show, tender. 'Baby' is a favourite of Nick's, and he'll whisper it into Tyson's neck when they're sprawled out on the floor of the van, spent and high on adrenaline and amazement.

'Love' remains Tyson's favourite. He likes calling Nick that in public, letting people assume what the hell the like about it from the way he looks and the way he inflects the word. There's just enough amusement in it to make people shrug and move on. It's never fooled Mike for a second, and Chris ignores it completely, because he just doesn't think it's worth commenting on it. Chris is probably the best person Tyson knows for taking people exactly as they come. (Doesn't mean Chris'll _like_ the way people come sometimes, but it's not like it's up to him to change it. Still, he accepts Nick and Tyson for NicknTy and just grins at them when they get all lovey. It's pretty rare; normally it swings between fond insults and tussling. Or sex, but they try to keep the noise down with that.)

So other people, outside the four of them, take their cue from Mike and Chris, from the way they'll have seen Nick and Tyson exchanging overripe endearments minutes before over who's going to unload the van and who's going to reload - "It's your turn to load up, light of my eyes." "Call me that again and I'll gouge 'em out, babyface." - and ignore it.

That's never made it any less real, though.

**2005**   
_Stillwater, Oklahoma._

So Mike and Chris never batted any eyelid, when they joined, and by the time they were writing the second record, there was a whole system behind the pet names. Turned out, though, that that was the _only_ thing they had a system for. Their first record was all about girls, but they've kind of renounced them for the moment, and they're a little bit stuck for a subject matter.

"Well, what if _we_ split up?" Tyson hypothesises, and Nick frowns.

"Ty, that's the worst idea I've ever heard."

"No, I'm not sayin' we _should_, Im just sayin', what song'd we write if we broke up?"

"If _we_ broke up, we probably wouldn't be writing songs about it together, would we?" Nick points out and grabs a Dr. Pepper from the fridge. Thanks to Mike, the Rejectcave (rechristened) is a Coke-free zone. "Dumbass."

"Hey!" Tyson draws himself up, mock-offended.

"Also, t'ain't gonna happen, is it, so." Nick shrugs. "Think again, baby."

"Trying, cherry-pie," Tyson retorts, acidly, and then stares at the blank sheet of paper for a further five minutes, clicking his pen absent-mindedly. He hears a sigh as Nick flops down onto the carpet next to him, shoving the flotsam and jetsam of clothes, paper and cans out of the way to find a seat.

"So, aside from 'how 'bout we break up?', what have you got?" Nick asks, peering over Tyson's shoulder.

"Nothin'," Tyson admits, gloomily. "It's not as easy this time. And I'm not rehashing the first album," he adds as Nick opens his mouth, mindlessly doodling on the edge of the paper.

"I wasn't asking you to," Nick says irritably, tugging his hand through his hair. "Look... so, yeah, you don't have a break-up to work from this time, but I bet you can remember what it's like?" Tyson snorts. Nick seems a little discouraged by this. "Ok, so if we don't use _your_ break-up misery, how about we try the last time _I _got dumped?" Tyson looks at him, interested, because while he knew about it, sat through the whole damn mess, Nick was never as voluble about his own break-ups as Tyson was. "I got angry. Sadness... guilt..." Nick shrugs. "Didn't happen for a while. Most of the time, I was hopin' she'd call me and beg me to take her back, just so I could screw her over the same way she did me. Tell ya what, I really thought about stealing my dad's car for a while... just getting away."

"Yeah, 'cos your dad wouldn't have killed you for that." Tyson grins. "So, what, you were gonna steal the car and - what, drive through the night and try to leave your pain behind?" He actually giggles, and Nick raises an eyebrow at him.

"Shut up. I never said I actually thought this thing through. I was sixteen, I'd just got my licence, I thought driving was the solution to everything."

"Oh, Nicky baby, you emo." Tyson grins, but his fingers are tapping out a rhythm on the table and Nick points at them.

"You doing anything with that rhythm or just trying to piss me off?"

"What, I can't do both, love of my life?"

"You can and generally do." Nick shrugs. "I was just wondering, cos that's a a new rhythm, I thought you might be-"

"Coming up with a song?" Tyson shrugs right back at him, standing and heading over to the table. "Nah, just - tapping." He pauses, then grabs a clean piece of paper and sits down. "Though, I guess if we kept that rhythm and then put a note over the top and really simple words - like, OK, how about 'drive all night', we'll go with that, we could-"

Nick grins, all but tuning out Tyson's words. He draws up a chair next to Tyson at the table and rests his hand so-casually on his leg. Tyson never so much as pauses in his chatter, positing break-up woes in the middle of a catchy, drive-forward beat and adding in some of the venom Nick'd talked about before.  
It could work. They could always make it work.

"You're fucking awesome, I ever tell you that, sweetheart?"

"Oh, you don't need to." Tyson says airily. "And - sweetheart?"

"S'what I called her when she was breaking up with me." Nick lies, but Tyson reads it in his face.

"It's just as well I like you, Nickolas Wheeler. And that I have a band with you."

Nick grinned, lopsidedly. "Sure is – sweetheart."

**2006**   
_On the road_

It's funny, Nick thinks, wearily, that when people talk about the glamorous life of the rockstar, they don't mention the driving. Maybe it's some kind of psychological glitch. The music, the venues, the pretty groupies, all accounted for, but the long hours on the road between each gig? Strangely absent. Nick thinks it's a pity, because it's on the road, perhaps a after seven or eight hours or so, that things start to get _really_ interesting. Mostly because they're all so damn stir-crazy they'd do almost anything to alleviate the boredom.

Take now, for instance. It's been six and a half hours since they left Nebraska, and Nick's starting to contemplate homicide. He's not too fussy about who he picks, either. So Tyson better stop looking at him with that stupid grin, or he'll find himself hanging upside down from the ceiling by his _ankles_. No such luck.

"Nick," Ty beams, crawling into Nick's bunk, and he's all legs and elbows and sharp edges, and barely enough room for Nick when he's by _himself_, dammit. He gives Tyson a half-hearted shove, and receives an injured look in reply. "Somethin' wrong, sweetheart?"

"Nah," he replies softly and without rancour, because he has to _work_ at staying angry at Tyson, "just fuckin' bored."

Tyson nods. "Yeah."

"Thought you were writing?" Nick arches a brow, and Tyson sighs, yanking at his curls.  
"Can't. Not today. Concentration's shot to hell."

Nick lies back in the bunk and shuts his eyes. After a couple of seconds, he feels Tyson join him, pressed up tight against him because their bunks are too small for anything else. He glances down at Tyson, who's somehow managed to contort himself so he's using Nick's shoulder as a pillow when Tyson is too big for his own bunk, let alone for curling up under Nick's chin.

"Ty, what're you doing?" he asks, not unkindly, one hand coming up to tease through Tyson's hair, palm cupping the back of his head whilst his fingers come through his hair. "Cos I'm sorry, love, but I'm not doing anythin' but sleeping. Want this day _done_."

Tyson gives him a faintly injured look. "Sleep's good. Sleep means I don't have to worry about what I can rhyme with 'eyes' that'll actually work in a song."

"'Surprise'?" Nick tries sleepily.

"Norah Jones may be a god in human form, sweetheart, but that's just added incentive not to steal rhymes off her. I'm not facing down the wrath of an angry god for the sake of a lyric." Tyson tries to make himself more comfortable in the tiny bunk and evidently fails from the way he's squirming.

"Norah Jones, Ty? Seriously?"

"Mock me when I can defend myself, asshole." Tyson says, but his voice says that he's grinning.

"Oh, it's asshole now, is it?" Nick says, and he's smiling to. Tyson can infuriate him like no one else, but he's also the best person to be around when Nick's down and pissy like this. It's like he knows instinctively whether Nick needs a blow-out fight or to be teased back into a good mood. "You keep doing this to me, building me up-"

"Call me 'buttercup' and I will _end you_."

"-and then breaking me down." He grins. "What happened to 'love'?"

"You're that most of the time," Tyson says, dragging over the words like he too is falling asleep, "and then sometimes you're an _asshole_."

"Gee, thanks, Ty," Nick murmurs back, sleep beginning to tug at him. "Really know how to romance a guy, don't you?"

"You know I do," is the equally soft response. "You're a damn lucky boy, honey."

Nick just laughs, slow and sleepy. "If I can't call you 'buttercup', there is no way you can call me 'honey'."

"Yeah, well." Tyson's eyes are drooping shut. "You're my honey. Like those girls in all those R&amp;B songs."

Nick hits him gently for that. "Shut it, Ty."

"Can't help it, Nicky," and Tyson's evidently talking on instinct, words slow like molasses, "you're my honey."

"Sure, sure..." Nick can't be bothered to fight that one, and he knows Tyson says it with affection, so who cares? He lets himself trail off into sleep, and Tyson listens as his breathing becoming slow and regular. He grins tiredly into his faded T-shirt, chin still hooked over Nick's shoulder, and manoeuvres them into a more comfortable position, careful not to wake Nick. For a while, he stares up at the ceiling of Nick's bunk, listening to the low drone of the bus wheels on tarmac and the rhythm of Nick's breathing. A melody catches in his head, and he hums, as quietly as he can, tapping one finger against the mattress, following the beat. Before he can forget, he slides out of the bunk, clambering carefully over Nick to grab paper and a pencil, scrawling down the lyrics and the notes onto hastily-drawn manuscript. It'll do for now. Satisfied, Tyson climbs back into the bunk, wrapping an arm round Nick's waist and lets the rocking of the bus lull him into sleep. It's been a while since he slept without help, but Nick has that effect on him sometimes.

**2008**   
_Florida_

Tyson is officially freaking the fuck out.

He doesn't exactly mean to, it's just this record isn't anything like the others. There's the added pressure of success, sure, but the other records were just him and Nick sat down somewhere, playing around with stuff, not worrying about it too much. There were times when the lyrics didn't come before, sure, but never this endless dry spell. He's never had so little inspiration before _in his life_. And nothing will shift it, it's awful. Every turn he makes, he comes back to where he started, the most frustrating never-ending circle in the world, like being caught in one of those optical illusions where you can't tell where things start and where they end.

They have maybe three songs, and one of them's so shaky, Tyson isn't sure he'd play it to his little sister, let alone release it to the world on a record.

Two songs and they need an album's worth. They are so, so fucked.

And what if he can't do it? What if he can't ever get the lyrics or get the spark of another song? What happens then? He's their frontman, sure, but he's pretty sure he's not playing bass for them anymore, because he's not going to lie and pretend he's ever been really good at bass compared with other stuff, and he's got some awesome ideas for shows - if they ever manage to make a new record to tour - and a bass would just get in the way. So if he's not writing and he's not playing bass, and is just singing lyrics that aren't his on songs he'd had no part in... fuck, he might as well just join an amateur choir and have done. He can't bear the thought of-

"Hey! Hey, Tyson!" Nick's there again, shoving coffee into his hand, one eyebrow raised. "You're doing it again."

"Doing? Doing what? The problem, Nick, is that I'm not doing _anything_."

He drops his head into his hands. The tension in his shoulders is making his back ache. God, he's tired. He's so fuckin' tired and he hasn't been _doing_ anything. He'd laugh at himself, if he had a sense humour, lately, anyway. Nick's still behind him, level green eyes taking in the table strewn with crumpled paper, scraps of lyrics slashed out with an angry pen, more paper on the floor,

where Tyson swept it off the table hours before. Nick sighs, his hand warm and reassuring on the small of Tyson's back.

"Thought we weren't going to rush things," Nick reminds him, gently, and Tyson makes a bitter sound halfway between a groan and a laugh.

"We're not rushing things, dude," he mutters, staring at the wood grain on the table. "In fact, things are so un-rushed, I think we've ground to a complete stop. _Shit_," he breathes, sitting up. "This is just-"

He windmills his arms, and Nick steps out of the way to avoid being smacked in the face. "Inconvenient?" he suggests, wryly. Tyson snorts, shoving another load of paper off the table, and letting his forehead rest against the cool wood. It's January in Florida, and Tyson wants this stupid, motherfucking piece of _crap_ album out by the end of the year. And he's going to do it if it kills him.

"Prob'ly won't kill you," Nick remarks, conversationally, and Tyson realises he's spoken out loud. "But it might be enough to get you sectioned. Dude, you gotta snap out of this."

He grabs a chair and drags it round to Tyson's side of the table. "I'm serious," and when Tyson turns his head to look Nick in the face, Nick's eyes are indeed uncharacteristically sober. "We can't afford for you to crack, now! We'd have to spend fortunes on a cardboard cutout replacement of you!"

Tyson tries for a smile, he really does, but he knows it's fallen flat when a worried furrow appears between Nick's eyebrows.

"Nick, I just..." he scrubs his hand through his hair, and when in the hell did he last climb into a shower? When did he last leave the house, come to think of it? It feels like he's been trapped here for weeks, months, years.

Nick's hand slides up his back, gentle, reassuring. "S'OK, love. Look, take a break, OK? Clear your head. Shower, actually eat something. You're starting to look a little skinny there, Ty." There's a warm smile hidden in his eyes, and Tyson gives in, mainly because he knows he won't improve sitting here and partly because he's never been all that good at saying no to Nick.

"Tell you what," Nick starts up, "how about the hot-tub? Don't think we've ever even used the damn thing, we could give it a go?"

Tyson stares at him. "Wait, so - your suggestion for 'clearing my head' is for me to move my breakdown into a _hot-tub_?!"

Nick shrugs, unashamed, grinning. "Yeah, why the fuck not?"

When he puts it like that, Tyson can kind of see his point.

The hot tub is - surprisingly weird, actually. It's kind of like having a bath with Nick which, yeah, they've done before a couple of times? But not _outside_ where people can _watch_. Tyson's never really though hygiene should be a spectator sport. Still, it's kind of nice? Sort of. Nick's there, and that's good, but the break isn't helping. Really isn't helping. He can feel panic clutching at his throat, every time he thinks back to the lyrics he's got to write

Nick's hand is hot on his knee, even under the hot water. "Ty? Baby, look at me, OK?"

"Fuck, Nick." Tyson rests his head in his hands, inches above the water, feeling water track down his cheeks from his wet hands. "This just isn't happening, _shit_. It's just not _coming_."

"Ty -" and Nick's voice is properly worried, now, though it's rather hard to hear him over the white noise rushing in Tyson's ears, although that might just be the bubbles in the tub, and oh, God, Tyson just can't _think_ any more.

That thought strikes him particularly hard, and panic slams into him seconds later as his throat constricts. He chokes air into his lungs, the world spinning, dizzily as the next breath is harder. His hands are cold compared to the rest of him as he clutches one to his chest - he can't fucking breathe! Dimly, he registers in the corner of his mind that he's having a panic attack; he's had them before, never this bad, though, and he hears the 'thud' of Nick's feet on the grass as he jumps out of the tub and sprints from the house. _Please don't leave me here by myself,_ Tyson thinks, desperately, as he concentrates on forcing as much air into his lungs as possible, trying to tear his mind away from lyrics and melodies and progressions that _just don't fit_.

"Ty, Ty, c'mon, baby," Nick's back in the tub with him, leaning him back to breathe into a paper bag, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "That's it. Keep breathing."

Tyson obeys, concentrates on the slow inhale-exhale and Nick's hand between his shoulder-blades, and gradually, his heart rate slows and his tightness around his throat relaxes. When he opens his eyes, Nick's sitting next to him, looking grim.

"Please don't do that again," is all he says, leaning sideways to rest his cheek on Tyson's shoulder. Tyson chuckles, hoarsely.

"I'll try. No promises, though," he warns, carding shaking fingers through Nick's hair. Nick sits up, still scowling with worry.

"No, we're not staying here," he says, abruptly, and Tyson gets the feeling that this is a spontaneous decision. "Not any more. I'm gonna phone Mike and Chris."

He hops out of the hot tub, and Tyson stares after him, confused. "Explain?" he calls, pleadingly, and Nick turns to grin at him, even if it does look a bit forced.

"How'd you feel about a road-trip?"

**2008**   
_On the road: Georgia_

The panic attack doesn't happen again, but that doesn't mean things get any easier. The lyrics aren't the easy, simple things they were before, but not just for simple reasons, either; their subject isn't as simple as it once was. Tyson won't write about girls and break-ups again, not when he hasn't had one of either in a long, long time. Pain, relationship worries, sure - but Nick's not so keen on those, so they're keeping them to a minimum. A couple of songs about old girlfriends, about imagined relationships are fine, but some of them are a little too close for comfort. Equally, too much of an environmental slant will make their record 'boring as shit' as Nick so eloquently puts it, so that's that out.

Tyson kind of loves their Mona Lisa, but Nick's currently saying they have to choose between that and the song they wrote for Gwen Stefani - the one she didn't like, dammit. And if he could think of some way to make the song work for all of them as a band, Tyson would go for that one without a second thought, but - they can't seem to manage that. He hates the thought of leaving it out, though.

Tyson's a little worried this record is going to break him, even with Nick there to hold him together. They've been travelling for far too long now, and he really wants to go home and back to his own bed (not that his own bed _feels_ like his own bed), and just sleep for a week. But this is Nick's miracle cure to stop Tyson going mad, and he's not going to say anything to make Nick think it isn't working.

Of course, it's not like he's actually had to say things to Nick for quite a while.

Tyson wants to sleep and sleep and sleep and not have to worry about any of this. He loves his job, can't believe people are actually letting him get away with calling this his job, travelling round the world with his best friends and playing shows, it's like something out of a kid's fairytale. And then there are times like this, when he feels like he got cast as the villain in the fairytale and no one told him before he got stuck with the punishment for all the awesome stuff he got.

"S'this mean I can call you a wicked Queen?" Nick asks with a grin when Tyson confides this to him. Tyson just huffs.

"Shouldn'ta told you." He pouts. "My momma always told me you'd break my heart." He adds and Nick's grin widens, delighted to see Tyson in better spirits than normal.

"Like you've ever told your mom about us." He says easily. "Anyway, my mom said we wouldn't know we had hearts unless we let them get a bit chipped now and then."

"Right ray of sunshine your momma was." Tyson mutters, and scribbles something down in the margin of the page he's working on. The song, uninspiringly, is called "love song", but short of talking about green eyes and jet black hair - which makes it sound like he's talking about Harry fuckin' Potter, and Nick dyes his hair anyway - or a mean way with a paper bag in times of need - not the most romantic image ever - or the way Nick's voice smoothes over ridiculous pet names and makes them sound legit, there's no love song Tyson's really interested in writing. No wonder nothing's coming.

"Whatcha got there?" Nick peers at the piece of paper, and deciphers Tysons scrawl, upside-down which is impressive.

Tyson looks up at him, blearily from his manuscript. "If you've got a better idea, please, feel free to share?"

Nick shakes his head. "Nah, you know you're better at that stuff than I am." Instead, he swings himself into the seat next to Tyson, and peers over his shoulder, watching the black sharpie skitter across the page before doubling back to scratch something out and scrawl something equally illegible next to it. Tyson's staring at the page with frightening intensity, barely humming scraps of melody under his breath.

Nick leans forward to correct something, and then bites his tongue, leaning back. This is the most awake and alive he's seen Tyson in days, and he doesn't want to fuck it up. Too late - Tyson sees the flicker of movement as Nick reaches out and pulls back.

"What?" he asks, and Nick shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. "No, seriously, what? If it's shit, you're gonna have to tell me before we slam it on a record, anyway."

Nick shakes his head. "S'not shit, Ty. It's awesome, seriously, just rhyming silhouette and and 'forget' twice? It's a bit-"

"Can't think of another rhyme." Tyson admits, chucking down the sharpie and dragging a hand through his hair. It was already pretty messy, and now it's just ridiculous. "Think of anything?"

Nick smooths his hand down Tyson's back, feeling the knob of his spine under his palm. If it had been asked antagonistically, he might have - but no, he probably wouldn't have ignored it. It's Tyson. "We'll get it done, love." He says absently. "Um." He racks his brain. "How about, er. 'Beset'?"

"Do we want to ellide the lines?" Tyson asks, retrieving his sharpie and tapping it against his notebook. "Cos that's always a bitch to do musically, y'know that, and you can't end a phrase with 'beset'." More than anything, he just sounds tired, and Nick wonders where the fun of writing this stuff together went.

"Huh. Yeah, maybe not, it's a bit - over the top for this one. The chorus'd work better if it was really simple, y'know? We can make the verse kind of complicated." He's still got a hand on Tyson's back, and Tyson pauses thoughtfully for a second.

"How about 'regret'?" he suggests after a second. "That could work, right?" he grins at Nick, wide, jotting down the line. He turns back to Nick and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "Thanks, sweetheart."

**2009**   
_San Antonio TX_

It's been an amazing tour and an amazing show, and Nick can feel adrenaline pumping through him. Tyson's been at his most energetic, even though Nick can feel the effort it's taking him to bound around him. He's looking forward to getting a bit of a break, getting Tyson to relax and _eat something_, sleep and rest up.

But those are thoughts for another time. Right now, Nick is all but high on the excitement of this last show. High and keyed up, catching the crowd's enthusiasm, feeling heat under his skin from the way Tyson went to his knees in front of him, wrapped himself around him during solos. Watching him sing, acting up to the crowd, singing their words and their songs, is almost as much of a boost as playing them.

He comes off stage, grinning like a fool, and Tyson bounds after him.

"Dude -" is all he manages to get out before Tyson hurtles towards him like a glitter-dusted comet, carefully avoiding the guitar as he curls his arms around Nick's shoulders to breathe into his ear, hot and sticky, wholly unsexy and yet somehow awesome.

"Fuckin' awesome out there, dude..."

Nick laughs, disentangling himself from Tyson's embrace to remove the guitar, waving hastily at Mike and Chris as they wander off to sort out their own shit after the concerts, grab showers and the rest of it.

Tyson, oblivious, wraps his arms around Nick again in a tight, glee-filled hug, and Nick's too high and happy to bother about the fact that Tyson's currently sticky and covered in glitter. Tyson's scared Nick half to death this year, driving himself that way as well, and Nick's too happy to have him with him, to be playing shows like the one they've just played to worry about a little glitter, no matter how much of a bitch it is to wash off later.

Uncaring of anyone who might be watching, he brings his hands up to Tyson's face, and pulls him down the short distance into a kiss.

He can feel Tyson smile against his mouth, feels Tyson's hands sweep up to cup his jaw, and for a moment, everything stops. Faintly, Nick hears the things he associates with the end of a show - shouting, the sounds of clear-up, the muted noise from the merch stand - but ignores them, stays wrapped up in Tyson, in their own obliviously happy little bubble.

Tyson breaks away first, gasping. He pulls back to grin at Nick, rolling his eyes as Nick rubs away the sparkles on one cheekbone.

"Shit, darling, that was _awesome_." Nick breathes into Tyson's skin, and doesn't realise he's called Tyson his 'darling' until the moment's well and truly past. (Not that it matters, because Tyson totally is.) Tyson doesn't seem to care, grinning wide, but when he speaks he sounds surprisingly quiet.

"That's that," he says softly, and Nick gives him a worried look.

"Sad about that?" he asks, and Tyson shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs, the glitter layered on his arms and face catching and flaring up in the light.

"I am. I am a little sad," he smiles ruefully. "I mean, we tour each album, and we pick some songs to play over again in concerts, but then it's like they're just - done, y'know?"

Nick grins up at him. "Yeah, but darlin', we're not."


End file.
